Kirk Miller art

There’s a story my father once told me that I’ve never been able to forget. It was meant as advice, though it felt more like a warning, or perhaps a confession. He told it to me when I was still a boy, at an age when trust comes easily and the world still feels safe. But his words unsettled me, and they’ve stayed with me ever since. I’ve spent years, whole seasons of my life, trying to make sense of it. 

The story, as he told it, went like this: 

A young boy, much like me, had climbed onto a roof to retrieve his kite. When he turned to climb down, he discovered the ladder was gone.

The boy was hesitant, frightened. But the father’s voice was calm, reassuring. “I won’t let you fall,” he said. So the boy gathered his courage, closed his eyes, and jumped.

At the last second, the father stepped back. The boy hit the ground hard. Dazed and aching, he looked up in disbelief. His father stood over him and asked, “What lesson have you learned?” Then, without emotion, he said, “Never trust anyone. Not even your own father.”

 I remember sitting in silence, unable to respond. It was as if a part of me had gone cold. At the time, I didn’t know what to do with a story like that, whether to take it as a parable, a joke, or a glimpse into something darker.

Looking back now, I understand more than I did then. I see the fear behind the lesson, the desire to shield, by wounding first. Perhaps my father believed that mistrust was a form of strength, a way to survive a world he had learned not to rely on. Maybe, in his own way, he thought he was protecting me.